Irony is such a beautiful and bitter thing. Much like anything both lovely and acrid, it tends to land the most brutal and personal hits. Quite synonymous to times where one lady acquaintance of Cross happens upon the other and they become fast, vengeful friends. Vindictive women and irony both have an unrivaled tendency to arrive during the most unfortunate of situations. That is to say, it invokes hilarity upon enemies and allies alike; positive and negative. Mostly, however, irony has an almost cruel tendency to strike the unaware without mercy or particular care. If karma's a bitch… then irony is certainly a bastard.
Then again, at least karma only came in one part. Irony had a rather deplorable habit of coming in four parts. Really. Irony should have known that anything classy comes in threes, but amongst clowns and gamblers common, there can be exceptions made since four of a kind. Dramatic irony could be pictured as that man dress darkly and skulking through the shadows cast by tall light posts. He secretly stalks the lady dressed in shaded pink up the street, known to the world but not to her. He'll strike unexpectedly under the eyes of unseen stars and the moon. Verbal irony plays the swindler. Always talking, rambling, gossiping, speaking, but always meaning anything else than what is said. He dances with words as Cross does' ladies… that is to say a lot and frequently. Comedic irony is, of course, the clown who cares little for appearances and less for who finds his jokes humorous.
Last but not least comes the dreaded situational irony. This particular part, the joker of irony, wears many costumes. It dances often between happiness, surprise, shock, confusion, and despair. Like a good gambler, its cards are never revealed until the very last second. It comes as babies, marriage, breakups, and death. For every person, it is slightly different, unique, or individualized one might say. For Allen Walker, this irony came as a simply carved slab of stone. Disturbingly prime and unnaturally clean, a single name carved onto polished slate; Mana Walker. Ah, raise the glass to common despair and the usual twisted smile fate. A boy lost his father and even his death was ironic! The man so prone to running in streets killed by a carriage while walking on the sidewalk upon his beloved son's insistence.
A stroke of deplorable luck. A bad hand of cards against detestable kismet. Per the norm with particular bad gambles, something of importance, of value was to be lost. Mana Walker lost at age… How old was Mana? He still appeared to Allen around sixty and he sincerely doubted the man had been anywhere near seventeen. Whatever... he supposed it really wasn't important how old Mana was now. A soft sigh faded to the winds. When whom are used to having nothing and being nothing themselves… it is only natural that anything that tells them otherwise immediately becomes precious. Mana had freely given love, kindness, compassion, and warmth. Was it selfish that the being known as Red and now as Allen craved it like an old soldier does morphine? He really could help but miss the gone and vanished…
"A good evening to you." A haunting melodic voice greeted.
Allen barely looked up from his depression, and then only because the voice struck a familiar chord within his memories. His doleful silver eyes took in a rather terrifying visage. A fat, almost goblin-like clown, hung over Mana's grave much like a bashful girl behind a tree. Although, with that thought, it would have to be an extraordinarily wide tree. Allen blinked; his mouth parted slightly in shock.
"Shall I revive Mana walker for you?" The strange clown continued most intently.
Allen didn't respond. There was something painstakingly familiar about that voice, the outrageous costume as well. It just didn't sit right within both his mind and his stomach that this man remained nameless. He closed his eyes in thought.
As if considering that an answer the clown went on, "If you wish me to, I need your assistance."
Nothing came forward in his mind as a name dance so tantalizingly upon his tongue. It was a frustration similar to that of walking in a room and forgetting your purpose… or like coming across another of Cross' numerous debts.
"I need you, the beloved one," A slight pause as if for dramatic effect, "to call Mana out from the heavens."
That rang a bell. Mana… That was Mana's voice. Allen's eyes snapped open and he stared intently at the strange goblin clown. There was no mistaking that voice as anyone else. It was familiar and musical, the goofy tilt unlost within the costume. Allen narrowed his eyes at the ridiculously decorated top hat. Well… certainly they held the same… tastes.
"Mana…" He voiced silently.
He nodded.
"Yes indeed!" Mana clapped his hands, "You can steal back your Mana from that hateful God!"
Allen felt his face twist into an expression filled to the brim with a relieved sort of anger. A vein slowly began to show itself on his forehead. Both his hand folded themselves into a shaking fist. His moving, albeit twitchy, left arm went unnoticed. Mana would likely chide him later for reverting into Red's usual anger, but at the moment he felt as though it was perfectly justified. Summoning speed Allen was unaware he even had, he vaulted over Mana's supposed grave and landed a fist right to the face of the very not-dead man. Mana crashed to the ground clutching his nose. Seeing no reason to show sympathy, Allen proceeded to kick him in the ribs while shouting obscenities. A perfectly normal reaction given that the only family he ever had was apparently 'not dead'.
"You STUPID clown!" He screamed as he landed a particularly vicious kick to the kidneys.
Mana let out a pained groan. Duly noted and purposely ignored.
"I thought you were DEAD!" He screeched.
After one last kick, Allen stopped and took in several sobbing breaths. Tears fell from his eyes despite his best efforts to hold them back. He raised a dirty arm to whip them away.
"Mana…" Allen cried, "Was I… Was I truly so awful you wanted to leave me behind?"
Mana ignored him and scuttled several feet away while now clutching his ribs. He pointed an accusing finger at the boy.
"You!" He seethed, "Why did you hit me!"
Allen scowled despite the tears.
"Cause you're Mana…" The scowl hardened, "A stupid, idiotic, crazy clown."
For several moments… all was silent. Quiet in the way that both parties were beginning to come to conclusions vastly different from each other's. Allen, twisted by grief and sorrow was convinced that this strange clown was, with beyond a doubt, Mana. He really wasn't that far off. There are many things one cannot be changed easily, and the voice in one of them. The creature known as the Millennium Earl, on the other hand, was coming to the conclusion that he was most definitely not Mana and that this kid deranged. Only the latter could be considered even slightly correct.
"I'm not Mana!" Mana hissed.
A pause.
"…Yes you are."
"No I'm not!"
"You are!"
"I'm not!
"Yes!"
"No!"
Allen grit his teeth.
"Fine! If you're not Mana... then what's your name?" He questioned pointedly.
Ah, the logic of ten-year-olds. Quite brilliant when deployed in the proper moment.
"I'm the Millennium Earl, little boy." He said in a low voice usually reserved for the announcement of titles and men with rather large egos, "I am the master of the Akuma and patriarch of the Noah."
Allen stared at him with a blank expression. Mana continued to perform several poses, each more elaborate than the last.
"That's a title, not a name…" He deadpanned.
Mana froze as though in shock. Not such an unexpected reaction when faced with the surprisingly correct and logical points brought about by children. Allen shrugged his shoulders.
"See you're Mana." He stated offhandedly as though that was common knowledge, "That carriage to the head must have knocked up your memory and increased your craziness, that's all."
Mana shook with unreasonable anger.
"No!" He shouted much like a child, "I'm not Mana! I'm the Mellenniu–"
The young boy was swift to interrupt.
"Sure, sure. You're the Millennium Earl. Lame title. Don't know why you want it. But that's not what I'm asking. What's your name?" Allen pouted, "It's not that hard! I'm Allen Walker! Now give yours." Another pause, "It's only proper manners."
What happened next was rather unfair. Mana, stunned by logic and peeved by his own insanity, chose not to answer. He fled the scene unwilling to deal with some brat that insisted he was that hateful Mana and who he wouldn't be getting an Akuma out of. Allen was left with the shattered fragments of hope glistening amongst the blood of his fingers. A seed of obsession was planted with Mana's denial of self, and Allen was now determined to return to his sides. It could be considered a proper throw of the wrench, a simple flick of the wrist really, straight into the face of fate. Sure, Cross would happen upon him, younger than expected and with eerily familiar steely grey eyes. He would not be as easy to manage, with a despairing sigh and the familiar stench of irony, just like the previous Allen Walker.
A couple things to note that a fairly important if you want to read this story:
1. Allen will be 10 instead of 12 when Mana 'dies'. Why? I just felt like it. Totally not important to the plot or anything.
2. I like it when Allen had weird unknown memories of the past. I feel like they're fitting for a character that likely has his own forgotten memories on top of Neah's.
3. I encourage comments, plot theories, and good fic recommendations!
4. It has gotten to the point... that I feel I need to clarify. Clarify what you might ask? My writing style of course! 'Cause some of you just don't seem to get it! I write my works to be funny while still including plot elements. I have gotten 'advise' on my works where I get things like 'yeah I know it's supposed to be funny been this scene is supposed to be angsty'. You know who you are...
Anyway, I would like you, my dear little readers, to understand that in most comedic scenes if you remove what's funny it becomes gosh-darn depressing or cringy. It removes the 'fun' aspect which I like to focus on. So please, tell me how you laughed your guts out and chortled with laughter in the middle of class because that's what I am going for! Perhaps my comedy isn't meant to be angsty, after all, there is this wonderful gem called black humor for a reason...